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Talley, "Adam's Dream: Poems for a Latter Day" (reviewed by Tyler Chadwick) Options · View
Posted: Thursday, April 05, 2012 11:27:47 PM

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Title: Adam's Dream: Poems for a Latter Day
Author: Douglas L. Talley
Publisher: Parables Publishing
Genre: Poetry
Year Published: 2011
Number of Pages: 136
Binding: Perfectbound paperback
ISBN 10: 1427649529
ISBN 13: 978-1427649522
URL: http://www.parablespub.com/adamsdream.html

Giving the Beauty of Holiness a Tongue

Reviewed for the Association for Mormon Letters by Tyler Chadwick

During the fourth month of my wife's first pregnancy, she started spotting. Startled by her yell from the bathroom where she'd been getting ready for work, I ran from the kitchen and met her halfway down the short apartment hall. "What should I do?" she asked, absently handing me her crimson-brown spotted undergarments as she turned, without waiting for my response, to call her obstetrician. While she spoke with her OB, I slipped into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. Wringing the undergarments in my hands, I told God the bare-bones of our situation: our first child, four months along, my wife suddenly spotting-please oh please oh please let everything be okay.

And everything *was* okay, with both mother and child, our anxieties notwithstanding.

While I'm confident our oldest daughter (she's now eight) would still be with us even if I hadn't offered my inarticulate petition to God, I'm not sure I would have learned what I did from the experience if I hadn't hit my knees and at least tried to verbalize my desires. (Not that I'm saying God set the circumstances in motion in order to teach me a lesson, just that the lesson arose out of the experience.) After closing my prayer, I flipped open the scriptures that were sitting on the bedstand. They settled on Malachi 3, parts of which I'd memorized in seminary and which had come up in nearly every Sunday School or Priesthood lesson and sacrament meeting talk I'd ever heard on tithing. So I was familiar with the refrain: "Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse [. . .] and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."

What really got my synapses firing, though, was this statement a few lines down the page: "neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field." Until that moment I had never associated my young family's corporeal prosperity—which right then centered in my wife's reproductive health—with the blessings of tithe-paying. But as I considered Micah's statement that morning, I sensed that our meager young-couple offerings were accepted by God and that the fruit of my wife's and my procreative bodies would not be "cast" from the womb prematurely.

I don't pretend to understand why, even among God's faithful, some pregnancies reach full-term and others miscarry or result in stillbirths or why some couples have no trouble conceiving while others never can. But I *am* convinced a) that God heard my clumsy pleas that morning and somehow appended them to the other prayers that had been, were being, and would be offered for the blessing of our family's generations and b) that my oldest daughter is a great blessing to our immediate and extended family.

The power of honest language (even if it's clumsy) offered to God on the altar of humility is cumulative. It extends well beyond the range of each individual voice raised in prayer and joins with other voices that express similar desires across time and space. It even extends beyond the limits of the specific words used in prayer and the capacity of the supplicant to use them. Brigham Young acknowledged as much in a sermon delivered to a group of saints at Box Elder, Utah, June 7, 1860. Speaking to the fruits of discipleship, he observed, "In praying, though a person’s words be few and awkwardly expressed, if the heart is pure before God, that prayer will avail more than the eloquence of a Cicero." After all, he continued, "What does the Lord, the Father of us all, care about our mode of expression? The simple, honest heart is of more avail with the Lord than all the pomp, pride, splendor, and eloquence produced by men." In Brother Brigham's economy of worship, then, the clumsy, fervent prayer is more effectual than the well-wrought, yet dispassionate one.

Plato leveled a similar argument against the Sophists in Ancient Greece, suggesting that the Sophists' eloquent mode of expression was "mere trickery" and "personal adornment" and that Truth (capital "T") was not to be found in pursuits associated with the use of "mere words." I sometimes sense this same distrust of words in contemporary Latter-day Saint culture. In a recent sacrament meeting talk the speaker mentioned how much s/he admired a certain leader because this leader was a man of action, not words. Instead of talking about what needed to be done, he just did it. Imagine, this speaker seemed to be saying, it we talked less about service and just served.

While there's certainly merit to this attitude—after all, as the adage goes, actions may speak louder than words—what about those saints for whom words *are* a matter of faith, which, as Joseph Smith taught, is a principle of action and of power and thus one means of providing service to others (see "Lectures on Faith" 7:3)? What about those who successfully combine the simple, honest heart with an eloquent tongue, those who are convinced that words act upon and influence the world and our existence in and relationship to it in profound ways?

This is one of the central arguments of Doug Talley's recently published poetry collection, "Adam's Dream: Poems for a Latter Day." In this collection Talley weaves his experience and desires as a husband, father, and son into hymns, parables, prayers, and lyric meditations on relationships among humans and between humans and God. In the process, he revisits metaphors and narrative forms we often use to describe, to understand, and to commune with God and His kingdom. Talley thereby takes up language as a form of worship—meaning that he not only uses his poems to *praise* God, but also to *emulate* God, whose words create worlds out of chaotic matter.

If we think of poetry in etymological terms, as I think Talley would have us consider it—*poesis* being the Greek term for the process of making—God, then, is the first Poet. And Adam was His apprentice. It was Adam who first built an altar from which to approach the heavens in the true order of prayer and it was Adam who named the animals and cultivated the earth, bringing order to a fallen existence. Talley has also entered this apprenticeship. And with "Adam's Dream" he has crafted an altar of words around which we might gather as he translates the language of angels into an extended, eloquent, fervent prayer that our souls and our families might be touched and transformed by the simple beauties and the language of holiness.

"Adam's Dream" is divided into four sections: "Land within Arm's Reach," "Temples Framed by Hand," "Voices from Another Room," and "Flowers of a Kiss." Each section contains eighteen poems and is framed by a nineteenth. These extra poems unfold one line at a time throughout each section, with a new line appearing in the header of each page on which a new poem begins.

As an argument for the structural unity of Talley's book, I submit that together these extra poems serve as an extended, four-part prayer. The final of these four parts—the extra poem that appears in the section titled "Flowers of a Kiss"—bears this argument out well (in order to suggest the associative power of this selection, I've left off the end punctuation because in the book each line appears followed only by an ellipsis):

The autumnal decline resigns the spirit
Yet beauty remains a daily commonplace
As ironies swarm like dark stars and haunt
Songs of the spirit will answer need in the smallest particular
Spirit and flesh join as equal tutors of belief
In covenant after the manner of stars and flowers
The two are made one
As type and shadow of a resurrection
The heavens open in more ways than one
Eternity courses time like a thread of words
A few key words remain, even as the flower fades
Culminating in further illumination at the veil
Words and gestures of faith resound through all generations of time
Until even the harshest irony surrenders
One word above all others
Circumscribed in one eternal round
A woman shall compass a man
With no beginning and no end
in the name of Christ Jesus, Amen.

Each part of this petition could arguably take the section heading beneath which it appears as its title, though each could also just as easily be unnamed. Whatever the case, the poet veils his book with this poem-prayer in all its associative glory, a veil through which he reaches in order to gather readers around the altar of worship where he drops words like live coals on the tongue. Among other reasons, he does this because, as he observes in his Foreword to the book, "The beauty of holiness begs a tongue"—and with his lyric gifts and his prayer he sets out to share and to prepare readers to receive that beauty lingually.

In this light, consider the book's opening poem, which appears beneath the following statement—the first line of the first section's extra poem: "In an early light the beauty of holiness is manifest," which suggests the innate relationship between holiness and light. The poem is titled "Hymn of the Morning Star":

Morning spreads across the sky.
Birds begin to sing.
Their voices raise our thoughts of praise
to Thee, our God and King.

Who else gave the sparrow breath?
Crocus its blue song?
Or gave us choice to add our voice
in worship all day long?

Who but Thee, O Lord, our God,
nurtures each good seed
and answers prayer with patient care
according to our need?

Give to us an angel's bread,
though a crumb or trace,
and then we'll sing an offering
as with an angel's grace.

With this intricately arranged opening hymn, Talley not only mirrors in his book the structure of most LDS worship services—which typically begin with a hymn—but he offers a fitting invocation to his collection.

This connection between singing and praying is clear enough, especially in Mormon culture. As the Lord told Emma Smith in 1830 when he called her to compile a book of hymns: "my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads" (D&C 25:12). And the connection between poetry—especially lyric poetry—and singing is also fairly clear. In his "Defence of Poetry" (written in 1821 and published in 1840), Percy Bysshe Shelley observes that "A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men [sic] entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why." In "Hymn of the Morning Star," Talley draws both connections, suggesting that as he and his fellow poets "begin to sing[,] / Their voices raise our [desires and] thoughts of praise / to [. . .] God." Framed this way, the poet becomes an intermediary figure, one who might sincerely and eloquently sing in order to "move and soften" others, including, perhaps, God.

In "Adam's Dream" Talley sings a variety of songs, leading a multivoiced chorus of lyric meditations on and mediations for the world. Among others, this chorus of fellow poets includes: God, Adam, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Dante, Vergil, Horace, Shakespeare, William Stafford, Talley's kids. This multivocality is apparent in one of my favorite poems from the collection, "Latter-day Aesthetic." The poem begins, "I once had a dream I was William Stafford / riding a bicycle to China to become a poet." Not only does the poet slip into "the guise of another" in his dream, he also does it in this poem by taking on something of Stafford's own "natural mode of speech," which American poet James Dickey described as being "gentle, mystical, half-mocking and highly personal daydreaming about the western United States." Within the shadow of this mystical/playful/personal voice and, in Talley's words, "encouraged by the views of an oriental sage / cycling alongside [him] with the same ambition," the poet plays with the fiscal advice proffered by this muse—"In China, he said, you make good living as poet"—and spins it into an exploration of what makes poetry a means to living well. "True or not," he says of the sage's bit of fortune cookie wisdom,

we were entirely content, happy

to chase on a bicycle our dream in a dream.
What was it but a voice from another room,

a whispered oracle from some templed vision,
a truly original idea perhaps? I think of Adam,

the first in so many things, tending red peonies
in a garden, the first man to laugh, the first

to reach for a woman with love instead of lust,
the first to use words as metaphor and symbol.

Perhaps I was the first to dream of crossing
the Pacific on a bicycle in the guise of another

—a simple, animated descendent of the first
of all true originals—led from the brink of hell

to the fringes of heaven on a wave of ocean
flamed by sun and moon, believing all the while

a poem must sparkle like water for the soul
in creating the world, or prove nothing at all.

Beyond suggesting that poetry can help us live deeply and well by engaging us with language and imagery that ignite the imagination to conceive of new dreams and to reach for and to inhabit other wor(l)ds, "Latter-day Aesthetic" also argues for the poem as sacrament, as "water for the soul." Talley fully realizes this aesthetic communion in "Perspective on Greater Eternities." In this poem he "consider[s] the great cities of the earth, / how each from the air appears set like a jewel" in Earth's crust, and how Christ refused this "handful of baubles" when Satan offered it to him "in the mount." To each of Satan's temptations Christ had responded by referring to something an earlier prophet had spoken. "It is written," he said, reaffirming what Talley calls "a few, old words" and "reshuffling" them in the new context "into loaves of bread," into sacramental language that would someday feed generations of God's children and raise them into holier, immortal flesh.

Flesh and blood, body and spirit, the sacred and the commonplace, heaven and earth, man and woman, the language of worship and everyday speech-these are paired terms Talley juxtaposes, explores, and combines throughout "Adam's Dream" and through which he seeks to resolve the ironies of mortality—or at least to ease the burdens imposed on us by them. I think of one poem in particular that's drenched in irony and whose imagery is drenched in iron: "Parable for the Pulse of the Wrist." In this lyric narrative, the poet recites a story he's fond of telling and retelling, because, he says, "I never tire of its strange beauty, / its happy ending returning over and over to smile at me." The story:

One bleak winter evening a good doctor deftly cut
the umbilical cord wrapped three times around the neck
of my firstborn to save her from strangling to death.
An intern noted the moment precisely, seven past seven,
because, like a garden hose suddenly gushing water,
the cord, once severed, whipped a circle of blood

halfway across the room against a pale yellow wall,
against the blue scrubs of those standing by the bed,
against the face of a clock fixed at seven past seven.
The splatter of blood on glass could have been a chime,
a red stripe announcing its own peculiar name for the hour.

The irony of the poem centers on the fact that blood had to be shed in order for the poet's firstborn child to survive delivery, a bloodshed beyond that which may typically accompany childbirth. The poet draws a parallel between this blood sprayed across a delivery room and the blood shed by Christ in Gethsemane. With this parallel and his extended meditation on it, he suggests that, yes, childbirth and its antecedents—procreation and pregnancy, especially—are acts of atonement, ones that send the mother deep into the valley of death in order that she might give life to her child. Talley also suggests that these acts and their associated ironies can—as the iron (the blood) that whipped across everyone and everything in his story—give life to more than just the child. They can also tutor the belief of an anxious mother and father. They can return a little bit of innocence to the world. They can course through time like and in response to the thread of words strung in effectual prayer between and for a family's generations.
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